


Upon a Solitary Island

by Verecunda



Category: Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell & Related Fandoms, Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell - Susanna Clarke
Genre: Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M, Mild Angst, Post-Canon, Shameless Shippiness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-13
Updated: 2017-02-13
Packaged: 2018-09-24 04:33:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,415
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9701906
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Verecunda/pseuds/Verecunda
Summary: An unexpected revelation from Mr Strange provokes one in kind from Mr Norrell. Happily, they are in a position to deal decisively with the matter.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This is 100% syrup. Sorry about that. I just really needed these two to snuggle!

Mr Norrell was in excellent spirits. An obscure passage in Ormskirk’s _Revelations_ , which he had read perhaps a hundred times and had each time passed over as unimportant, had suddenly struck him with new significance, and it had taken him to Chaston, which in turn had led him to Doncaster, then to Russinol, and to a dozen others, chasing the faint echo of an idea through their pages. He pulled books from the shelves, thumbed through well-read volumes and others he had scarcely glanced at since his youth, searched out half-remembered passages, and marked the place of anything that seemed to have even the most remote application, all with steadily growing pleasure. It was the most delightful way of passing the time: the thrill of inspiration, the fascination of following it down all its winding paths, uncovering new treasures where one had seen nothing of interest before; and as he went about his business, he propounded his new theory in the cheerfulest way to Mr Strange.

“In truth, I had the notion from you, after recalling what you told me of how you applied Ormskirk against the fairy’s enchantment at Windsor, and it has caused me to reconsider the charm in chapter twenty-three. It bears some faint resemblance to a spell recorded by Watershippe in his description of the singing stones of Penrith…”

Presently, however, he became aware that he had been speaking at some length, and yet had not heard a single word from Strange in response. In fact, Strange was entirely silent, without even the habitual sounds of approval or frustration he so often made whilst reading. With a frown, Mr Norrell looked up. Strange was still sitting on the sopha by the fireplace, his own book balanced on his knee. But he seemed rather to have forgotten it was there, and was instead staring into the fire with an abstracted countenance, and there was something in his air that gave the impression of his labouring under some considerable weight.

“Jonathan?” When Strange made no answer - indeed, made no sign at all that he had even heard him - Mr Norrell left his accumulating pile of books and crossed the room to his side, touching him lightly on the shoulder to rouse him. Again he said, “Jonathan.”

Strange stirred from his reverie at last, but he did so slowly, blinking dully up at Norrell like one drawn reluctantly from sleep.

“Ah. There you are.” He spoke lightly enough, but his smile was a mere shadow of itself, and indeed, there was something so remote in his attitude, something so very unlike himself, that Mr Norrell could not prevent a deep tremor of consternation.

“Are you well, Jonathan?”

“What? Oh, yes. Quite well.”

But once again his smile held no conviction, and Mr Norrell said, rather sternly, “Jonathan, pray do not pretend to me.”

For a moment or two, Strange looked as if he might argue; then, all at once, his obstinate expression softened, and with a sigh he said, “Pardon me, Gilbert. I do assure you, I am well. It is only-” here he made a vague gesture about him - “do not you find this Darkness to be rather oppressive at times?”

Mr Norrell’s throat closed over. “Do you require more light? I think I may add more, if you wish.” He had brightened the library considerably since their entrapment within the Darkness, refining his spell for improving and replicating the light of the candles and the hearth, but it would take no great effort to increase it further.

But Strange shook his head. “No, no, the light is perfectly good. No, it is more the Darkness itself. I only find it has put me rather out of sorts today.”

Something very small and vulnerable within Mr Norrell’s heart curled tightly in upon itself at these words, and he blinked rapidly, his eyes growing hot. From the very instant of his imprisonment within the fairy’s curse, the Darkness had been nothing but a source of greatest joy to him. It had been freedom: freedom from the rest of the world, from its impositions and its irksome demands upon him, freedom to study and perform greater and greater magic. And above all, he had Strange with him, by his side always, as had been the dearest wish of his heart for so very long. Far from being a curse, it had seemed to him the very definition of a blessing. And, much later, when Strange had smiled at him in that singular way, lifted Sutton-Grove gently from his unresisting hands, and kissed him, his happiness had been complete.

But even in the midst of his joy had been the shadow, the misgiving - never very far away - that it was all too impossibly good, that the moment must come at last when Strange would realise his mistake, and then he would abandon the great plans they had made together and redouble his efforts to escape the Darkness and return to his wife, after all. And he, Norrell, would be left alone once more.

“Well,” he said, reserve creeping over him like a frost, “I have not found it so, but if you have grown tired of - of our situation…”

Strange stared up at him, brow furrowing. “What in the world-?” Then, as understanding came upon him, his eyes widened. “You cannot believe… Good God! What put such a thought in your head?”

Norrell shrugged uncomfortably. It was hardly something he could put into mere words: a lifelong conviction that aloneness was his natural, irremediable state. It was a conviction formed by a thousand separate impressions from his earliest understanding - from the deaths of his parents, all through his solitary childhood, even into his early manhood - growing twisted roots through every vulnerable crevice in his heart, until they were quite bound up together with no hope of separation. He had come to bear it, he had even come to prefer it, until the day Jonathan Strange had strode into the library of Hanover-square, exchanged Tott’s _English Magic_ for its reflection in the mirror, and in the same instant, turned every well-established habit of Mr Norrell’s life equally back-to-front.

A deep frown had gathered about Strange’s brow by now. Putting his book aside, he reached out and took Norrell’s hands in his own, moving his thumbs across the backs of them. A touch as light as a whisper, but it caused Norrell’s pulse to dart, and he dared lift his eyes to meet Strange’s. The expression he saw in them was so intent, so fierce with emotion, that it held him rapt.

“Gilbert.” Strange’s hands tightened about his. “I assure you, I meant no such thing. I meant only that this living in eternal night can, on occasion, tell on one’s spirits.”

“I had not realised you were so unhappy,” said Mr Norrell quietly. “I have not noticed any such thing.”

This made Strange laugh. “Oh, I know _you_ are in your natural element, you unsociable creature, perpetually burning the midnight oil. But I am a mere mortal, and I must own that I occasionally feel the lack of a few rays of good, honest sunlight. But only very seldom, and only for a little while. I bear it very well, upon the whole.”

Far from being comforted by this, Norrell was disturbed to think that Strange had been in this mood before, and that he had failed to notice. That in his own joy, he had not thought to notice. The greater part of his life had been spent alone, and even now, he had still not quite got into the habit of consideration. He felt quite helpless before this admission of Strange’s: he felt he ought to do something, say something, to offer him comfort, but he scarcely knew what.

Uncertainly, he reached out and touched his hand to Strange’s cheek. At once, Strange turned his head, placed a warm kiss in his palm, then covered Norrell’s hand with his own, holding it against his face with every appearance of satisfaction. Norrell breathed out.

“Come,” said Strange softly, and Norrell felt himself being drawn onto the sopha. Strange’s long arms closed about him, gathered him up, and, very naturally, he sank into the warmth of the embrace. All his fear and reserve melted away in a moment, and he closed his eyes and buried his face in the curve of Strange’s neck, breathing in the scent of him. The angle caused his wig to come a trifle askew, and he felt the light brush of lips against the exposed edge of his hair.

“I had thought to comfort you,” he mumbled, a little nettled that his great gesture of selflessness had been thwarted, but unable to forebear nestling closer.

“It’s all of a piece I find,” replied Strange. He chuckled. “What a pair we make! It is just as well that we are confined here, away from the rest of the world. No one else should have to suffer us!”

Mr Norrell smiled slightly, wondering at Strange’s ability to find humour in everything. But just then, Strange shifted, took hold of Norrell’s arms, and looked at him in sober earnest.

“You must never think that I am unhappy here, Gilbert. If I should occasionally be a touch low in spirits, it is that I am merely a little wistful for some sunlight. If you will bear patiently with me, I will do very well. Why, even a little low spirits is nothing - you did not see me in Venice! I believe, alone, I should have run truly mad, even without magical assistance.”

Mr Norrell shuddered. Strange had only told him a little of the period of his madness in Venice, and he did not much care to dwell upon the subject (and not only because it seemed to have involved an untoward number of cats and mice). He found Jonathan’s hands and held them tightly.

“But since our entrapment here,” continued Strange, “we have done great things together. All the worlds that ever were are open to us, for our exploration. Whatever the fairy meant for me when he cast this spell, I am sure it was not this. Rather than darkness and despair and the thousand other terrible things he doubtless intended, there is magic beyond imagining, excitement and wonder, and you. Above all, there is you.” 

His hands came up, framing Norrell’s face, and Norrell sighed. Strange smiled. 

“I am very happy. If I have ever given you cause to think otherwise, I am most heartily sorry for it.”

“Oh,” cried Mr Norrell, starting from his pleasant daze, “it is none of your doing, Jonathan. It is only that, sometimes, I cannot quite believe that you-” he swallowed - “that you are here with me.”

Strange’s brows arched. “Oh, sir, do not tell me you are turning into another Munday! Very well, then I see I must do my utmost to convince you of my material presence.”

He lifted Norrell’s chin and kissed him with inexpressible gentleness. When they drew apart, Norrell was certain that he must have a very foolish smile upon his face, for at the sight of him Strange laughed and kissed him again, once on the brow, then on both cheeks, leaving them tinged with pink.

“That is a most creditable effort, Mr Strange,” he said, almost in a whisper.

Strange smiled at this, but with something grave about it. “I will not have you feeling unwanted. It was through my own inattention that I lost Arabella, and I will not make the same mistake with you.”

“You could never lose me, Jonathan,” rejoined Mr Norrell. “The conditions of the spell render it quite impossible, and-” He broke off, seeing that Strange’s eyes were dancing with laughter that he was making no strenuous effort to suppress. “What is it?”

Strange shook his head, a helpless, wondering gesture. “God, how I love you.”

Drawing Norrell in once more, he kissed him again, very soundly. There was something about it, something in the contrast between the softness of his mouth and the urgency of the kiss itself, that set Mr Norrell’s head spinning, so that it was all he could do to hold fast to Strange’s arms and return the kiss with all the earnestness he possessed.

Even when they parted, he could not bear to look away from Strange. He could only gaze at him, drink him in, marvel at him. There had never been a great deal of poetry in his soul, but there was, he had discovered, an astonishing amount of love, and it was all devoted to Jonathan Strange. It came upon him all over again, as instant and remarkable and undeniable as it had been that day before the mirror in Hanover-square. So much had passed between them since, and he had nearly lost Strange altogether, but somehow, impossibly, he was here with him.

He ran his hands through Strange’s hair, twining his fingers through the thick curls, cherishing the familiar touches of grey, and his heart ached at the way Strange’s eyes fluttered shut, the soft sound he made in his throat. The firelight and shadows combined to create fascinating patterns across the planes of face, and Norrell traced a few of them with his fingertips, in something very like wonderment.

“I do not think I shall ever grow used to this.”

Strange smiled, his usual ironical smile. “Good. Then you shall never grow tired of me.”

“Never,” agreed Mr Norrell, and buried himself in Strange’s arms again. Strange leaned comfortably back, his chin resting on the crown of Norrell’s head, and for a long time they simply remained as they were, curled up together before the fire, as the candles glowed and the unfamiliar stars (though, in truth, rather more familiar now than otherwise) glimmered through the windows. Neither of them spoke for some time, and Norrell was content simply to delight in the sensation of it all: the warmth of Strange’s body all about him, the steady rise and fall of his chest against his cheek, the warp and weft of their magic as it mingled and settled about them.

When at last they drew apart, Strange regarded him with a wide smile, and Mr Norrell saw with great relief that the weight which had borne down upon him earlier appeared to have fallen away entirely, and his whole face was bright and animated.

“Now,” he said, “what was it you were saying about Ormskirk?”


End file.
